Chapter 21 Melissa
Melissa
You'd think the world would slow down after you watch the biggest fight of your life, but that's a lie.
Everything after is speed—blood, adrenaline, the twitch in your hands that says the worst is still on the way.
That's where I was, crammed between two walls of Scythes and Leatherbacks, the stink of sweat and engine oil thick enough to choke out the morning.
Augustine stood in the center of the circle, still leaking from half a dozen wounds, his right eye already swelling to a slit. The dirt under his boots was more blood than earth.
I kept waiting for the pain to hit me, but it was all numbness.
My head felt like it was full of bees. If I looked anywhere but directly at Augustine, I was going to lose my shit and sob for an hour, so I just watched him.
He caught my eye and tried to smile. He looked like a man who’d just been run over by a combine harvester and then told to host the afterparty.
Even with his nose mashed sideways and his mouth hanging loose, he was beautiful. He was mine.
The Leatherbacks reformed their wall, all black denim and blank faces.
They circled up behind Cutler, who hadn't moved from his spot at the head of the pack.
He was wearing his funeral suit, black shirt under his cut, boots shining like a gun barrel.
He had his hands folded, thick fingers flexing, but even from across the yard, I could see the tendon pop in his jaw. He was barely holding it together.
Damron and Seneca flanked Augustine. Seneca looked ready for round two; Damron looked like he’d rather just shoot someone and be done with it.
Cutler stepped into the circle.
You’d have thought God himself decided to pay a visit, the way the Leatherbacks parted for him.
Every set of eyes snapped to him, even Augustine's.
He walked slow, a deliberate shuffle that made every boot step count.
There was a line of fresh stitches under his left eye, and a faint tremor in his right hand—rage or withdrawal, maybe both.
He stopped about six feet from Augustine, the two of them squared up like it was a fucking High Noon sequel. No one else even breathed.
Cutler’s voice cut through the silence. “You think this is over?”
Augustine coughed, then spat red into the dirt. “You lost, Cutler. Trial’s done. Go home.”
Cutler’s lips curled up, but his eyes were ice. “Saint was nothing. Just a tool. The old way says you take out the king if you want the crown.” He paused, let the words settle. “You want my daughter, you go through me.”
I heard the gun clicks—two, maybe three. Seneca’s hand hovered at his belt, but the look he gave me said this was about to go atomic if I so much as breathed wrong.
Augustine said nothing. He just squared up, jaw set, left arm hanging dead. His right hand flexed, but I saw the way it shook. He didn’t have a round two in him. He barely had a round one.
Cutler smiled, wide and cold. “You ready, boy?”
And that’s when I lost it.
I shoved past Carl Dalton’s bulk, boots pounding out a rhythm in the dirt, and threw myself between Augustine and my father. The wall of Leatherbacks tensed, a ripple of movement. Hands closed on steel. I didn’t give a shit. I squared my shoulders, fists balled at my sides, and glared at Cutler.
He glared back, his face a mask of disgust and something worse. “Melissa,” he said, and the sound of my name in his mouth made me want to claw the world in half. “Move.”
“No,” I said, and it didn’t even sound like me. “If you want to kill him, you go through me first.”
A murmur rippled through both sides. For a second, everyone forgot what team they were on. Some of the Leatherbacks looked away, maybe embarrassed, maybe afraid. The Scythes watched with the cold curiosity of men who had never seen a woman take over a war.
Cutler blinked, like maybe I’d slapped him. “You think I won’t?” he asked.
I took a step forward, the distance between us so small I could smell the aftershave and the gasoline in his hair. “I know you will,” I said. “You always do. But not today.”
He looked at me like I was a piece of shit stuck to his boot. “Get out of the way. This is between men.”
I laughed. It was the only sound I had left. “Everything you’ve ever touched is between men, and look where it got you. You want me back, you stop now. You want to bury me? Fine. Just know you’ll have to live with it.”
I didn’t shake, even though I felt like my bones were vibrating apart. I stared him down, watching the battle behind his eyes—old pride, old hate, old love. He had never lost a fight in his life. Not once. Not until now.
Augustine tried to get up, and almost fell.
I turned and caught him, holding his weight even though I was half his size.
I pressed my palm to his chest, steadying him.
He looked at me, and for a second, all the pain melted away.
He was just a scared, beautiful mess of a man, and I loved him so much it hurt.
Cutler saw it, too.
He opened his mouth, closed it. For a second, I thought he might just shoot Augustine in the head, right there. But he didn’t.
Instead, he looked at me like he was seeing a stranger.
“You want him?” he said, voice flat. “You want to trade your blood for his?”
I nodded. “I already did.”
Cutler’s lips twisted. He looked at the ring of his men, at the line of Leatherbacks who were suddenly not so sure about anything. He looked at the Scythes, every one of them with a gun half drawn, but waiting. He looked at Augustine, who met his eyes and didn’t blink.
Then he looked at me, for a long, long time.
The world held its breath.
He turned his back.
The Leatherbacks didn’t move until he did. When Cutler stepped away, the wall parted, and the circle collapsed in on itself. For a second, nobody did anything. Then the Scythes surged forward, a pack of rough hands and clumsy arms, grabbing Augustine, hoisting him up, shouting in a mess of voices.
I felt the moment the tension left the air—like a power grid going dark. The shouts turned to laughs, and the hands that held me stopped shaking. Augustine sagged against my shoulder, but he was breathing. He was alive.
I looked for my father, but he was gone. Just an empty space where he’d stood.
I wrapped my arms around Augustine, ignoring the blood and the stink and the way my own ribs screamed. He leaned on me, then kissed the side of my head, soft and quick.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his mouth brushing my ear.
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I just held on.
Somewhere behind me, I heard Damron calling for first aid, for beer, for anyone who still remembered how to celebrate. The world kept spinning.
But for that second, that one fucking second, I was the thing that held it together.
I’d never been prouder, or more terrified, in my life.
The silence at Stone Lake was so thick you could taste it—metallic, oily, the flavor of every bad memory I’d ever had.
My father didn’t look back, but you could feel him burning holes through the back of my skull.
All around us, men in leather stood in a ring, arms crossed or fists tucked into pockets, nobody sure if they should cheer or shoot me for what I’d just done.
I felt Augustine shudder against me. His body shook with the aftershocks, the adrenaline, the pain—Jesus, so much pain.
He smelled like blood and salt, and I wanted to collapse into him and never get up, but my legs remembered what it felt like to run from my father, and they weren’t about to give up now.
I let go of Augustine and turned to see that Cutler had returned, only six feet away, his back still turned.
His shoulders heaved with each breath. I knew the drill, he was counting to ten, holding in the violence, making the kill decision.
My father didn’t do mercy, but he did theater—he wanted an audience.
So I gave him one.
I stepped closer, boots sinking in the churned mud and blood. My voice came out raw, so hoarse I barely recognized it. “You gonna turn your back on me again, or are you finally gonna listen?”
No one moved. The Scythes and Leatherbacks had both seen their share of drama, but this was new territory. I had their attention. Fuck, I had the whole damn world’s attention.
Cutler turned, slow, like he was worried the earth might give way if he did it too fast. His face was a disaster—eyebrows pinched so tight they threatened to fuse, eyes red and wet at the corners. He looked at me, then at Augustine, then at me again.
“You think you know what you’re doing?” he said, voice all gravel and gasoline. “You think this is a game?”
I matched his stare, daring him to blink first. “You’re damn right I know. You taught me, remember? Every lesson you ever rammed down my throat about loyalty, about blood, about how real men protect their own—well, here I am. Protecting my own.”
He scoffed, but the sound was hollow. “That’s not what this is. This is you spitting on the only family you ever had.”
“My family was me and Mom until you beat her to death with your bare hands,” I spat, voice cracking. “The only thing you ever taught me was how to survive you.”
He stepped closer, looming. “You know what happens next if you do this, Melissa?”
I didn’t flinch. I’d spent too many years afraid of that voice to give it power now. “You kill him, or you kill me. Or you walk away and let us try to have a fucking life.”
He reached for me—maybe to grab, maybe to hit, maybe to hug, but I didn’t let him close the distance.
Instead, I raised my voice so every asshole in that dirt ring could hear, even the ones pretending not to care. “You really want to kill the father of your grandchild, Dad?” The word stung on my tongue, but I made it a weapon.
The world actually stopped.